An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Title: To Rule Over Him
Rating: Explicit
Fandom: Dragon Age 2
Pairings: M!Hawke/Anders
Word count: 1,867
Additional Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Sex Magic, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Januanders, Fluff and Smut, Porn Without Plot
Summary:
“Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him”
— Transfigurations 1:1-5.
Porn without plot. Anders dominates Garrett Hawke in bed with magic.
Also Toppy!Anders, because there can never be enough Toppy!Anders IMO.
Written for @justhanderspositive‘s Januanders takeback. Sorry it’s late.
Day 20 (January 26th) - Bi the Way (Anders edition)
Anders’ sexuality is the theme of this day.
For @justhanderspositive‘s challenge: [HERE].
It takes me a bit to get to the actual bisexual bit of the prompt, and even then it’s not the focus so much as it is a device that Anders uses to help Hawke understand that he knows what it’s like for others to assume one thing just because of how another thing appears.
I still enjoy this piece, even if it’s not as prompt-centric as I hoped. Sometimes that’s just how the keystrokes click, if you know what I mean. ;)
Anders remembered the day that Hayden stumbled into his clinic, clutching a pair of worn yet pretty looking robes. Hayden glanced around, almost as though they hoped that Anders wasn't there, and yet... their eyes eventually spotted him, darning a couple of socks in the far corner nearest to the light of the high windows.
"Oh, Anders! Hello... um. Good afternoon."
Hayden ducked their head and shuffled forward a bit, still glancing around and holding their arms close to their sides. Clearly, they were uncomfortable about something. Anders put down his socks and thread and stood up, meeting Hayden halfway to hover over them, concerned.
"Afternoon, Hawke," he greeted them, smiling softly. "Are you alright? You seem tense."
Hayden frowned. "I thought I told you to call me Hayden," they grumbled. Anders laughed.
"So you did. Sorry, I'll not forget again. But, really, is something bothering you? Perhaps I can help." Anders looked down at the robes Hayden was still clutching tightly.
"Do you need help with those?" he asked, pointing to the robes. Hayden nodded.
"I-If you don't mind. But... that's not really what I came here to talk to you about." Hayden sighed and ran a hand through their hair, now more frustrated than uncomfortable. "I think... I... can, can we sit? Or maybe... do this while you're helping me with... these?" Hayden held out the robes, which Anders took from them gingerly. "Why don't you start by stripping down to your smalls first? I'll lock up the clinic for a bit so we can have some privacy."
Hayden nodded, and began to remove the armor, tunic, and trousers they were currently wearing while Anders briefly blew out the lantern and locked the door, coming back to find Hayden shifting in just their underthings next to one of the cots.
"Why is it so chilly down here?" Hayden complained idly, rubbing at their arms insistently. "It's nearly the height of spring, isn't it?"
Anders shrugged. "It gets much warmer later in the year. But come here and I'll help you get into these robes to warm you up. Do you want the trousers they come with, or...?"
Hayden debated with themselves for a moment before nodding. "Yes, I'll wear them for now."
Anders handed them to Hayden. "Then put these on first and we'll get started."
He watched as Hayden put them on, accessing them with a healer's gaze. Hayden was one of the more muscular mages he'd met outside of a Circle, though he supposed it came from growing up a farmer, like Anders had once upon a time. Hayden's muscles were slimmer, though, more densely packed from fighting with the staff they used to fight off the bandits and various creatures they came across on the odd jobs they completed around Kirkwall.
Hayden wasn't heavily muscled by any means, and likely wouldn't be unless they worked at it; they were more like Anders, tall and gangly with not much bulk and a little on the skinny side. Eventually, they finished putting on the trousers, socks, and boots, and Anders helped them into the silvery blue patchwork affair that was the robe they'd brought. It had a shoulder section lined in white fur, just like the hood that was attached to it and it hugged their frame nicely.
Anders then showed Hayden how to slide the belts through the proper holes and attach their belt pouches to them. Anders was just finishing up with the belt at the waist when Hayden grasped his hand.
"Wait. Is there... a way we can make it... tighter? But not, like... I don't know. Ugh.” They ran a hand through their hair again; frustrated. "I don't want to have a particular... look to it. Does that make any sense?"
Anders' eyebrows rose, and suddenly he understood. "Well, they're robes. They do a pretty good job of obscuring things like that on their own, depending on the cut. I can certainly show you the safest length you can tighten the belts to, but you also need to be able to breathe... and besides, I don't think clothing can necessarily help with what I think is troubling you. Why don't we sit in the back? I've got some tea going, a bit of bread and cheese..."
Hayden stared at him for a few moments, the tension in their shoulders slowly leaving them.
"You... you know what's wrong with me?" Hayden asked timidly.
Now it was Anders' turn to stare and sigh. "Oh, Hayden. There's nothing wrong with you... come on. Let's sit." Anders linked his arm with Hayden's and gently guided him to the back room he used as his sleeping quarters. The two of them sat down on the rug in the center of the floor while Anders poured them some tea and they made some small sandwiches from the small selection of bread, meat, and cheese that Anders had somehow not given away yet.
"So..." Hayden began after a while in an attempt to get the inevitable conversation started, "...so you know what's bothering me then? I don't think I meant to use the word "wrong"... I know it's not... not necessarily wrong." Hayden grasped their mug of tea with both hands and stared into the inky darkness of its contents.
"My father was sort of... the first to notice that I was... different. I didn't like being referred to as a boy, though I didn't know why it bothered me so. It became more obvious when the twins were growing up –especially Carver– my mother told me that older boys needed to look out for the younger ones. Father took me aside and asked me if I'd prefer to be a girl instead, but that... that wasn't right, either. I just wanted to be... me."
Anders nodded as Hayden continued, the words coming in a steady stream after the first few sentences were out of them.
"He told me that it was okay not to want to be either a boy or a girl. But sometimes Mother would still refer to me as her "oldest son" to the people in the village, and... well. I suppose, technically it's true." Hayden shrugged, gesturing to their physical self before they clutched the mug again and shook their head.
"I don't think that's what she meant. But Father always made sure that I was comfortable with who I was, and even after he passed, it was easy to remember his words and take comfort in them. Still, even though I knew I didn't want to be referred to as a she or a he... I needed to be referred to as something. So it's just been "he" for as long as I can remember, and it still chafes when my family forgets. Like, most people I meet are going to assume I'm a man, and I'm fine with that. But, like... when it's my friends and family who don't bother?"
Another shurg, and this time Anders nodded with understanding.
"I understand. It's like when people assume that I prefer men because pretty much all of my lasting relationships with people that I really cared about were men. But I do like women. I like women a lot. I spent a lot of my stint at the Pearl in Denerim with several women. Sometimes more than one at once. But it's like I said before, I believe that when a person falls in love, they fall in love with the entire person. It just so happens that the people I've dared to fall in love with were mostly men.
“Now, that sort of thing is a little different from your situation, but it's the same... idea. The frustration that comes from having to deal with the fact that not everyone will always understand or even respect who you are.
"But, I digress. I've met people like you in the Circle who didn't prefer one set of pronouns over the other. It might help to tell people to refer to you with something... neutral like "they" or "them". These are words people already know and are comfortable with, and they're easy to remember. There are other neutral pronoun sets out in the world, though I can't recall any off the top of my head... Isabela might know a few."
Hayden shrugged. "Oh, no need to go to such trouble for me. I think I like those myself. Like you said, they're simple to remember, and people already use them in their regular speech."
They grinned, and for the first time since they'd walked into the clinic, Anders watched Hayden truly relax. "After all, you really can't avoid saying "they" or "them" in a sentence very often, can you? Yes, I like those words very much." They laughed, seeming quite pleased with themselves. Anders couldn't help but chuckle a bit in return.
"I'm glad I could help you sort this out. Just know that if you want to talk about anything else, feel free to come by and ask, and maybe I'll know a thing or two that can help."
"I actually kind of want to know more about you, actually. Like... what you got up to at the Pearl? Isabela won't shut up about you when I take her anywhere, you know." Anders nearly choked on the bite of sandwich he'd been chewing and had to wash it down with a bit of his tea. He felt his face flush, and it must've been pretty bad because the mirth sparkling in Hayden's eyes was unmistakeable.
"You're asking about... like, sexuality now?"
"Yours, in particular." Hayden replied, gently digging one elbow into their knee as they propped their chin in one hand, still grinning like the cat that'd caught the cream. Anders tittered.
"I just told you that I'm attracted to both men and woman."
"And me," they added. "Yes," Anders replied without thinking, "and you."
Then Anders realized what he'd just said and Hayden had to set down their mug before rolling over with laughter. "I can't believe I got you to say that!" They descended into giggles for a moment or two before laying back on the rug and turning their head to look at him.
"What happened to the flirty Anders who I spoke to when we first met? I liked that version of you." Anders shrugged. "Old habits die hard," was all he said on the matter. "And, speaking of habits... would you like to tell everyone during our next card night about what we've discussed? Or at least tell them your preferred pronouns. They don't need every sordid detail... especially Isabela."
Hayden sat up and was suddenly sober for a moment as they thought about it.
"Yes... I think I'd like that. I might... might need your help with it. The telling of it. You know?"
"Whatever you need, Hayden," Anders promised.
"Thank you, Anders. For... all of this. And the robes. I mean, I could've asked my mother, but... I wanted to talk to you. I figured that you might understand."
"Do you want me to help tell your family as well?"
Hayden shrugged. "I suppose? If it gets you to eat a proper meal, sure. It's mostly Mother that I need to tell. Like, Carver's always been pretty decent about it, and even Gamlen sort of understands. If he's referred to me as a man to others, it hasn't been within my hearing."
"Hmm. I'd never say no to a free meal," Anders purred, and Hayden grinned triumphantly. "Then it's a date! You'll come tonight."
"Hayden..." Anders groaned. "It's not a date."
"Yes it is. Now do I have to stick around and help you out in the clinic to make sure you come, or..."
"Well, I never say no to a second pair of hands. I've got some potions that need brewing." "Will you show me how to make them? It's probably cheaper than ordering, isn't it?"
"Of course," Anders replied as he walked back into the clinic proper, unlocking the door and relighting the lantern outside. "And yes, sometimes. It is."
And so they worked side by side for the remainder of the day, Hayden unable to help keep themselves from smiling as they worked. They looked good in the robes, too; silvery blue was a nice color on them. Brought out their eyes. Eyes that sparkled and did things to Anders' insides that reminded him of how Karl had sometimes stared at him like Anders was some sort of amusing secret that only he'd known.
Anders wondered, briefly, if that was how Hayden thought of him. Then he shook his head and went back to his work; he had socks to darn later and he wanted to finish them in time to leave for that free meal he’d been promised.
Greyer certainly -- the years have turned all his golds to silver, leaving only his eyes to remember them by -- but softer in the places where he’s begun to fray. He’s the personification of a warm autumn afternoon, and the fading light does miraculous things when it shines on him.
Oh, how he shines.
It could be so much worse than it is, and even on the hardest of days, that fact doesn’t escape them. Decades have passed since Divine Victoria ordered an official end to the Circles…a few less since the Hero of Ferelden brought about a cure for the darkspawn Taint that loomed over their shoulders for so much of their lives. Through there will always be mages in agreement that no man was ever less deserving of a quiet retirement among the Antivan hills, each month sees a few travelers who want nothing more than to shake his hand and offer their thanks.
They bring gifts, sometimes. Blankets, books, little trinkets carved or forged or sewn with feathers. Faded notes from when they or their parents lived behind stone walls, counting the wasted years; things Anders gently insists they keep. The really savvy ones bring food.
(“We’re going to be poisoned one of these days,” he once mused aloud, selecting another custard roll. Ain had scoffed gently.
“If they do, I hope it’s another butter cake. I wouldn’t have objected to dying on that butter cake.”)
But Anders is not a healthy man, and hasn’t been since the day they found each other in the Nevarran backcountry. Before Justice took his leave, he regretfully contemplated that perhaps humans only came into the world with so much strength. Perhaps he had pushed Anders into exhausting all of his years before his time. Anders had replied that Justice never expressly forbade him from stopping for a sandwich now and again, and that the blame was as much his as anyone else’s.
He’ll be seventy-eight in Ferventis. He still doesn’t stop for sandwiches.
The cough does not mark the beginning, nor does it mark the end.
Rather, it’s a milestone of sorts; the first time Ain has to run from the house in the dead of night and bruise his knuckles on the healer’s door. He holds his partner’s hand by lamplight, whispering comforting nonsense as the old elven woman slips a needle between the hard, visible rises of his ribs and drains the fluid into a glass jug.
(Until his dying day, Ain will recall that it looked exactly like bad ale, complete with foam head.)
Once upon a time, Anders had taken a pragmatic approach to the passage of time; optimistic in a way he hadn’t been about anything since their earliest days together at Vigil’s Keep. The way he’s chosen to see it, as long as he’s capable of getting out into the forest for his daily walk and feeding the cats in the morning, he's far from being old. After that long night passes, life goes on as usual -- rising too early, drinking their tea together, complaining bitterly about the price of grain this year -- but marked by a series of small, insistent reminders.
When Anders’ feet grow cold, and when he picks up a stray cut or bruise, how long it takes to heal.
When the list of draughts and bitter powders the healer prescribed grows ever longer, filling up the cabinets and resting on windowsills.
When the small aches and pains that have plagued him for years suddenly grow fangs, and neither of them can explain why.
When Ain finds him on the ground by the woodline, last winter’s fallen leaves in his cloak, and spends the next day and a half stroking his hair, wondering if this is how the inevitable finds them.
When he wakes, and admits that maybe, today, the porch will do.
The last time they ever make love, it’s a snowy evening in late Frumentum; fire stoked high as it will go, surrounded on all sides by a copious amount of propped up pillows, and set against the backdrop of knowledge that they’re both going to ache tomorrow. Somehow, despite all of this, it remains one of the few things that can truly make the years fall away.
“Andraste’s gaudy bonnet,” Anders pants, hair falling in his eyes. Ain slips his arms around him, circling fingertips around the bite mark forming on his upper thigh.
“Andraste says to stop invoking her name. It forces her to check in on us and then she just feels greasy.”
“You’re greasy.”
"Well, not anymore.”
Anders laughs a throaty, satisfied laugh, turns over to look at him, and Ain’s heart stumbles a little, because there will never come a time when Anders isn’t beautiful to him. When he doesn’t want to kiss every inch of his body and devour him until someone complains about the noise.
They get three glorious minutes in the thick of the afterglow. Three minutes before Anders turns sharply, swiftly, and doubles over.
The cough that nearly killed him those three years ago never really left. With frantic hands, he grabs the deep, dark medicine bottle from the bedside cabinet -- the one meant to warm his lungs and clear his airway. Three drops on a cloth pad, and he inhales it with wet, uneven breaths for what seems an agonizingly long time. The oil itself smells of Antivan cooking, spicy and sweet, like dipping bread in pungent sauce as they traveled the back roads to reach the sea. It smells like a lifetime away.
Finally, mercifully, it goes to work. Anders spits a final time into the basin, then breathes easy at last.
“Incidentally...thank you for not running when I started coughing up suspicious colors.”
Ain shifts the blankets higher on their cooling bodies. “You tolerate my aching hip. We’re square.”
They lie together in the undemanding quiet, draped around one another, hands roaming without direction. Little by little, their menagerie settles back on the bed...Trifle and Mouse and Ser Stripeknickers, daughter of Ser Wyvernface, daughter of Ser Marmalade the Fat, son of Ser Perchbiter, son of the great and glorious Ser Pounce-a-Lot.
“The healer’s going to snipe at you, you know. She says the loose hair is going to aggravate your breathing.”
“Hm. Time to look for another healer.”
Ain watches him let one cat onto his bare stomach and scratch another between the ears. After a time, he kisses his shoulder, the borderline of his beard, and finally his lips. “I love you. Gods, how I love you...”
“I love you too,” Anders replies, exactly as he always has. As if the words are precious, clumsily stolen, and he wants to taste them before someone inevitably snatches them back. But Ain must be more transparent than usual tonight, because he doesn’t stay wistful for long. “And don’t give me those sorrowful eyes, Fearless Leader. I’ve told you before, you say it plenty.”
Three days after the end of Satinalia, Anders’ health takes a hard, sharp turn for the worst. Like he was waiting for one last unabashedly happy day...or just one last mug of that warm end-of-the-year wine he loves so dearly.
“Would you believe me if I told you this was alright?” he asks, when the act of walking to and from the bed tires him. “When I was an apprentice, I never in my wildest dreams thought I would live to see thirty years. The gallows, the sword, the rite...instead, I’m an old, awful wreck, and there are children who will have to be taught what a Circle was. I couldn’t begin to tell you how any of that happened.”
It’s meant for his comfort, Ain knows. For Anders’ sake alone, he can pretend it succeeds.
He sleeps most of the day away now, eats very little. Whenever he’s awake, however, he makes it a point to sit up and write. As his own failing body robs him of a little more each week, he’s managed to hold tight to this.
Years ago, he drafted a brief adieu to the mages who, for reasons he’s never quite understood, pen songs about him in taverns. He takes it out now, revisits it often.
Now and again, smooths his hands over the words.
Never forget that the mage rebellion took place in a thousand small battles, most of them shrouded in shadow. Before Kirkwall, before the White Spire, before the Conclave. For every whisper you raise in memory of me, raise ten for the apostates who made a life for their children in secret corners of the world, for the women who camped outside of dungeon cells to defend one another against their jailers, and for the apprentices who chose a tower window over the templar brand.
Freedom was never a privilege to be seized, but a profound and natural rightness that was always meant to be. The Maker's greatest gift to the mages was always themselves...the indomitable strength displayed by our people simply that fact, in its very purest of forms, holding constant and true.
I have been blessed to see it.
Live gloriously.
A beautiful day in late Eluviesta, the last of the filthy sheets of ice melting to the tentative grass beneath. Ain reads quietly by the window, contemplating making something with the leeks growing in the woods behind their home. Potato soup, maybe, or something with fish. When Anders calls him, his only thought is mild surprise that his partner has woken before noon.
Somehow, he never even considers. Not when he enters the room, and the air feels heavy...not when Anders takes his hand and kisses each knuckle, soothing rough ridges on scarred hands. Hilltops leapt. Horizons jumped.
“...I think I’m ready, love.”
In all their time together, Anders has never called him “love.” Not unless things are serious.
“...Are you sure? You really do look much better today. Do you want me to run for the healer? It could very well be the last of the cold weather wearing you down, I get it terribly myself --”
Anders’ slow, patient palm on his cheek. An indulgent smile that turns his chest to ice.
Ain exhales in slow, slow increments, hoping this will keep his voice steady. It does not. “I suppose...this is the part where I tell you I’ll be alright.”
“I wouldn’t make you do that. I doubt I could if this were the other way around...” Ain tries not to hear the way he breathes, the staggering effort. “Just...promise me you’ll get out into the sun? Feed the cats for me?”
When that, of all things, sets his eyes burning, Anders’ thumb stops tracing the curve of his tattoo and sets to swiping them as dry as can be hoped for. Ain swallows down the part of him that longs to shatter, and will. “...If the Countess gives me any lip, I’ll tell her Papa wouldn’t approve.”
“There you go.”
“I’ll tell her you’ll know. That you check in on us sometimes. ”
“I will be.” Ain thinks back to the look he’d carried about him when the False Calling had hit them, and all the times the melancholy had stolen the light from his eyes...that exhausted, battered, broken resignation. If nothing else, thank the gods that that look isn’t with him today. “...It was an odd one, but it was a good one. Wasn’t it? You and I, the whole ride...”
“The very best.”
When Anders settles back against the pillow with a deep, deep sigh of contentment -- as though it’s cold and raining outside, and he’s just learned he has nowhere to be -- Ain chances a moment of selfish, ugly hope. But the minutes drag on like the rises and falls of his chest that come slower and fewer between, and turn into hours. The sweet smelling spring breezes will turn cool with evening, and the shadows will lengthen and turn blue. When Anders speaks again, it will scarcely be a mutter, coming to him from miles away.
“...Mmm...your hands are warm...”
There are a lifetime of things left to say between them, but that will do. Lips pressed to his palms, hoping the warmth will find him. The irony and the kindness of it won’t settle on Ain until much later.
For the second and last time, Anders leaves without saying goodbye.
(Does this a day late because I love the friendship between my main warden and Anders and it’s where my FREAKING USERNAME COMES FROM!!)
Anders remembers her, vaguely, from the Ferelden Circle. She was that tiny little mageling that bit the templar that brought her in from the Denerim alienage and refused to speak to anyone. At least, until Karl’s bleeding heart sent him over with a cup of cocoa and that calming voice he was so good at. He had her smiling in no time at all...
Anders felt a kinship to her, in a way, from that alone. So it didn’t bother him much when he ran into her a few weeks later in the libraries.
“Do you think I could get this window open?” she asked, poking at one of the glass panels softly. “I just... it’s so musty in here. Some air would be nice.”
“I’ve tried already. They’re nailed down. Plus, the drop is too far to make it out.”
She glanced at him and he replied with a knowing little smile before sitting down across from her.
“What’s your name, anyhow?” he asked, leaning on his elbow and watching her straighten up in her seat to look at him.
“Aberdeen.”
“That’s a long one.” he drawled.
Aberdeen just shrugged. “It’s my name. I’ve never had any trouble getting people to call me it until I got here.”
Anders could imagine how the templars would stumble over the name. They hadn’t even bothered to remember his... But it suited him well enough. No sense in letting them know any more about him than they already did.
“It’s a good name.” he said, “Like a breath of fresh air.”
Aberdeen laughed faintly and shrugged. “Well,” she said, “glad you can get one somewhere.”
Later, much later, he sat in front of her carved oak desk and watched the Warden-Commander pry the window of her office open and shove it roughly to the very top of the frame. Crisp spring air filtered in, fluttering her papers, and she turned to face him with a bold grin.
“There,” she hummed, moving to her seat again. “that’s better.”
Anders laughed faintly. “Some things never change, eh?”
Aberdeen shrugged, shoulders sagging dramatically, and beamed at him. “Guess so.” she said, “But, well, at least now I can open the window, right?”
They both laughed, Anders kicking back in his chair, and lapsed into a slow silence. After a moment, he tossed her a grin.
“I’m glad it’s you. You know, in charge of this.” he said.
“Why?”
“You know, yeah? Like... how everything is.” he moved his hands around in the air uselessly. “It’s just, uh, it’s refreshing. To have someone who understands pointing me towards the next goal.”
“Mm, I’m glad you’re here too, Anders.” Aberdeen replied, humming. “It’s nice seeing a semi-familiar face after so long.”
“Like a breath of fresh air?” Anders quipped.
Aberdeen laughed, a full laugh--not one like she was afraid to be heard, and nodded.
“Yes,” she said, “like that.”
Stepping out of Arianni’s house, the light seems too bright, not quite the right color, and Anders puts up his hand to block it out. He takes a deep breath of air filled with the slightly sour scent of the alienage, focuses on that. The Fade never does manage to get the scents right.
“Hey.” Hawke nudges his shoulder. “You all right?”
Is he? He’s not sure.
~*~
The rest of the household is already asleep when Anders makes his way down to the kitchen that night, fills the kettle with water and wraps it in warmth with a touch of his hands until it starts to boil. Finding the herbs that’ll send him into dreamless sleep requires digging through the cabinets, and he still feels a little strange about doing that, still trying to figure out exactly where the lines lie.
It’s your home too, Hawke keeps telling him.
His own things are mostly still in the clinic, and he’s wrapped in a red robe that’s too loose and that smells like Hawke, and he’s been tiptoeing around trying not to wake anyone. But the nightly routine is familiar, and there’s a mug that’s become his, and he finds he’s smiling to himself.
There’s no magic in the herbs he uses, and a tea for dreamless sleep can’t keep demons away forever; he’d warned Arianni about that when he gave her the recipe. But it’s good for a couple hours of restful sleep, good for apprentices with a bad habit of setting their bunks on fire, and in his case, good for avoiding the occasional nights of memories that aren’t exactly his.
Or rather, avoiding the mornings afterward, when he hasn’t quite woken up yet and the sky looks wrong and he’s not sure which he he is. The dreams themselves aren’t so bad, really.
He leans against the kitchen wall and closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of steeping herbs.
Three years of being so careful to stay out of the Fade, being careful even with his dreams, and then he’d gone and volunteered to walk right in, for Andraste’s sake. And it had been fine. It had been all right. Disturbing, letting Justice take over, thinking Justice’s thoughts, speaking with Justice’s voice—but that was all.
He rubs at the back of his neck, remembering the warmth of Hawke’s hand in the Fade, reaching out for him, for Justice, for whoever Hawke had seen in him in that moment.
He opens his eyes again, watches the steam rise from his nightly cup of tea to keep the Justice dreams away. And then he pours it down the drain. Maybe he can do without it tonight.
What he deserves (Januanders Day 5 – Anders and Hawke)
Anders x Male Hawke (angst, fluff, happy ending)
In the mountains just outside of Kirkwall, right after the Chantry explosion, Anders and Hawke discuss what happened – and their future.
Read on AO3
No matter how hard he tried, Anders couldn’t tear his eyes away from Hawke’s beard. It was full of dirt. Maker knows that was nothing unusual, Anders had lost count of how many hours he had spent picking the remnants of their dinner out of this bushy affront to hygiene, but this time, it was different. This time, it was his fault. The ashes and gore in Hawke’s beard, the wounds on his arms, the exhaustion on his face. All of it – his fault.
“I am so sorry,” he began to – what, beg for forgiveness? For mercy? For love, knowing full well he should count himself lucky if even a single scrap of affection had survived? There were no words to make up for what he’d done, but he stumbled through them anyway, clumsily, hauling himself up his mountain of guilt in the desperate hope that there might still be a future at the top. “I…I can’t believe you let me stay with you. And…stayed with me. After I destroyed everything you cared about… I know I don’t deserve it, but I swear…”
“Anders.”
The way Hawke said his name, slowly, with that stress on the “An” and his jaw setting, Anders knew he was in for a stern lecture. He had feared those for so long, dreading the moment Hawke would finally realize how much of a burden he really was. It had taken him almost three years to finally understand that they were meant to console, not crush, that his lover never challenged who – or what – he was, but the way he doubted himself. This one would be different. This time, it would hurt. Reprimands. Hate. From the one person who had always supported him. Whose trust Anders had betrayed. He deserved it, every piercing word and insult. If Hawke hit him, that too, would be warranted.
But that wouldn’t make it hurt any less.
“The people I love are the only thing I ‘care about’, and you didn’t destroy them. Our friends are here, safe, sleeping peacefully in that cave over there. My sister is with them. Free. You saved her life. She would be dead if it weren’t for you. What you deserve is more than I can give you in a lifetime. But that is not why I stayed with you. I stayed because I love you.” It was stated calmly, his voice not raised, his hands folded in his lap. And in his eyes, a flame that should have been snuffed by Anders’ deception. Still burning, with steady warmth. Still seeing him.
He had no right to hide the ugliness. Not after everything, not anymore. In the Gallows, he had been selfish, high on Hawke’s support, on the fact that he was still alive. Hawke, this man who had surprised him yet again, deserved more than that.
“Sebastian was right when he warned you I was selfish. I cannot rest until mages are free. I will never abandon my cause for you.”
“Good. You shouldn’t.”
“Hawke, I’m serious. I know I dragged you into this, but you don’t have to…”
He didn’t get to finish the sentence.
“You didn’t drag me into this, Anders. You helped me out of a hopeless situation. You know perfectly well Meredith called for the Rite of Annulment weeks ago.”
“I…I didn’t think you heard…” Anders stumbled through the words in little more than a whisper, all air knocked out of him by the revelation that Hawke had known.
“Of course I fucking heard, sneaking up and listening in on people are what I do. I would have thought you knew that, by now.”
“You didn’t say anything.” He wasn’t in the position to, but he couldn’t help sounding defensive. When Hawke had accused him of having the mages’ blood on his hands, he had known…
“Well, yes, because I was hoping I could fix this without you throwing yourself right into the line of lightning. Seems neither of us has learned much in the last three years.” Hawke sighed, his exhaustion clearly visible beneath the wry smile he sent his way. “I thought with my influence…people would listen. Turns out being the Champion doesn’t mean that much after all. I asked the Grand Cleric to intervene, to send word to the Divine, tell her what a dangerous zealot Meredith was. She refused to get involved. She didn’t care, Anders, not one bit. She wouldn’t go so far as to sanction it herself, but she would have let the whole Circle be slaughtered without batting an eyelid. That’s who she really was. I do feel sorry for Sebastian; I know she was like a mother to him, but I certainly won’t be mourning her. So you see, you didn’t drag me into this. I was right in the centre of this mess, sitting on my arse, pondering what to do while my sister’s life was at stake. If you hadn’t done something…”
A few pebbles came lose as Hawke drove his foot sharply into the ground. They bounced off the ledge, clattering into the abyss behind them. In the screaming silence that followed, Hawke met his eyes. “Why do you think Meredith ordered the tower searched ‘top to bottom’? You know as well as I do that she was looking for a reason. If she had found anything – a papercut, a handkerchief from a bloody nose - she would have annulled the Circle right there. Without anyone around to know or help them. You didn’t condemn them. You saved them. You saved her.” Hawke’s face lost its resolve, his eyes leaving Anders’ to stare at the ground. “I am sorry I didn’t make that quite so clear right when it…happened. In that moment, it was…a shock.” He lifted his gaze back up to his. “But now that the shock has faded, I am not sad to see the Chantry burn. It made my father hate himself. All those years of being free, and he was still a slave to the Circle’s teachings. He drilled them into Bethany, made her afraid of her magic, made her feel guilty for who she was. Two good people, and the Chantry filled them with nothing but fear and self-loathing.” There was a sad smile on his face as he cradled Anders’ face in his palm. “Three good people. Until one of them, the strongest one, the one I will gladly tell the world I love, decided it was finally time to do something.”
Everything he had ever dreamt of hearing, but it wasn’t all there was to it. He furiously tried to blink away his tears, tried to steady his choked-up voice.
“That ‘good man’ just started a war.”
Hawke didn’t let go of his face, didn’t waver. He just nodded, one curt, determined movement. “Sometimes, that is necessary. Not all that long ago, I was in an army that marched right into one. I’ve never heard anyone say that was wrong.”
“That’s not the same; the Darkspawn would have crushed us otherwise…”
“As the Chantry has crushed mages for a 1000 years. It was about time you fought back…we fought back,” he corrected himself. “It’s also about bloody time the rest of us finally stood up for you.”
“It’s not your fight,” Anders protested weakly. He had to give him one last out; he owed it to him.
Hawke heaved an exaggerated sigh. “You really need to work on your listening comprehension. As I said about thirty seconds ago, it is my fight. And as I said about ten minutes ago, I would come with you even if it wasn’t. My happiness was never in Kirkwall. It was always with you. All I need is your stubbly face, my dog and, if you insist, a cat….And well, my sister. I’m sorry, but there’s no way we can keep her from tagging along. She’s a Hawke; we are immune to no.” His gaze turned inward, a warm small playing about his lips. “My sister, the rebel. Finally telling the Chantry just where they can stick it. I must say, I like the sound of that.”
Anders found himself smiling back. “I don’t mind if she comes with us. I like Bethany. She always tried to understand me, to understand everyone…And she said I reminded her of your father.”
Hawke blinked at him, slowly, silently. And blinked again. And again. And ten more times.
“That’s…an image I did not need…Like my father…does that mean I…No,” he shook his head with a fierceness that resembled that of his smelly Voidbeast of a pet, “not going there. Let’s just…get some rest and forget you ever said that. We have a long way ahead of us.”
Anders bit his lip. He had to ask one last time.
“Together?”
Dirty or not, Hawke’s beard tickled the way it always did when he kissed him.
